


Tales Out of Erebor

by keelywolfe



Series: Shopping [4]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-03-14 15:17:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3415574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keelywolfe/pseuds/keelywolfe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after 'The Road Delivered Us Home', a series of interludes after their arrival at Erebor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I get ideas for shorts that go with this series that I'd like to share so this is where I am going to put them!

* * *

If there was one lesson Thorin took to heart from his grandfather's teachings it was this one: hungry dignitaries were not reasonable ones. Meals should be frequent and generous, and they should reflect the importance of those visiting. Balin and the kitchens were in agreement, the better to hurry the dour Lords gracing their halls back out the great doors for these Dwarves, important as they were, had been less than reasonable to begin with. 

Surely these Dwarf lords had been elderly when his grandfather had been King and even the struggle of retaking Erebor did not seem to have won him the Kingship in their eyes. Their respect was grudging, their regard hard-won and Thorin took each scrap of it as one trying to fill a bucket with sand a grain at a time.

Part of the issue was surely appearances. Balin alternated between appreciative and exasperated with Thorin's simpler tastes and though the rich clothing and jewels his grandfather would have proudly borne might have endeared him, Thorin could not bear to ornament himself with any more than those that denoted his status as King and heir. 

The urge had not come to him again, no lingering darkness in the back of his thoughts and yet, Thorin had not forgotten the feel of it. Temptation was best kept at arms-length or further.

Still, he could not deny Balin's rightful claim that he needed to dress properly for dinner and had obeyed Balin's silent dismissal to do just that. It was twenty minutes until the evening meal, barely time to change and join the others in the royal dining hall. He took the time to redo his braids, threading them with jeweled aglets rather than the plainer ones he preferred. 

Bilbo had been dressed smartly enough when Thorin caught a glimpse of him joining Balin, not that Thorin had had a doubt. The knowledge that his choice of partners had not precisely endeared him to these lords made Thorin smile with grim humor, recalling their expressions when he'd introduced Bilbo to them. Unlike his wardrobe, that matter was not one open for debate. Thorin was uncertain who had made that clear to their visiting dignitaries; he suspected Dwalin. Not a word had been made about it to Thorin's ears, though their sour expressions had spoken volumes. 

No matter; Thorin well-recalled his own opinions upon meeting Bilbo with shame. A few days in his company might well change their view and if not, they would surely be better for a few conversations on the opposite side of Bilbo's sharp tongue. Bold as brass was his heart, and as bland with an insult as a compliment, something that none of the Lords seemed quite certain how to address and Thorin's lip was sore from biting it to hold back laughter. It might not help his cause but to hear Bilbo speak thusly was a balm to his soul. 

Time was ticking away and Thorin gave Ori a distracted smile from where he stood in the kitchen, stirring a bowl with practiced ease. A narrow glance at the clutter littering the counter made him suspect cookies and Thorin sent a silent prayer to the Maker that the kitchen was cleaned to Bilbo's preferences before they returned for the night. Ori was an excellent child-minder and Frodo adored him, but being away from Frodo put Bilbo on edge as it was; no need to antagonize him over his kitchen. 

The doorknob was in hand when a soft voice stilled him.

"Uncle Thorin?"

Thorin stopped and frowned at the sitting room in the direction of that curious voice. There were chairs and tables, the fire cheerily burning; nothing out of the ordinary but also no sign of a clever Hobbit child. Across one chair was his long coat with its heavy fur ruff and Thorin narrowed his eyes to see it move of its own accord until a head of dark curls emerged.

Thorin knelt down beside the chair and rested one hand on Frodo's head, "Whatever are you doing, _akhûnith_?"

Big blue eyes look out from the cavernous depths of fur, "It smells like you, Uncle Thorin."

"I see," Thorin sighed heavily. "I'm sorry, my child, I know I have not been here for your bedtime, I--"

"I know. Mister Balin said you are turrible busy, turrible," Frodo's voice went low in a frankly awful imitation of Balin's voice and Thorin had to cough to hide a chuckle. "But it's important to help people." Frodo's smile was easy, "He came and read me a story, a different one than ours. And Mister Ori, too. He said he knows lots of stories!"

"Did they now," Thorin murmured.

Frodo nodded happily. "And we can save our book to read for next week!"

"I would like that very much, Master Baggins," Thorin said, and dropped his head to softly tap his forehead to Frodo's. The child giggled and leaned in further, rubbing his nose against Thorin's until they both looked at the other with crossed eyes.

"And this is how you respect your Elders?" Thorin demanded, burrowing a hand into the folds of the coat to find Frodo's side and he dug his fingers in lightly until the child squealed laughter, squirming helplessly.

"Stop, stop," Frodo begged between giggles, "Stop, I-" He broke off to gasp for breath as Thorin finally relented.

"I think I'd best, before we ruin my favorite coat," Thorin said dryly. He drew the collar up closely against Frodo's dark curls, tucking the folds around him. "There you are. It smells like me, does it?"

Frodo nodded happily, burying his nose into the fur ruff. "Like your pipe weed and your soap and Uncle Bilbo's cooking."

"A compliment on all counts, I'm sure." He dropped a last kiss onto Frodo's small head. "I'm sorry, my child, I can't stay any longer."

"I know," Frodo gave him a last sunny smile, edged with a trifle of uncertainty. "But next week?"

"Sooner than that, _akhûnith_ , I promise you."

In a last moment of hesitation, Thorin leaned in to press his face to Frodo's silky curls, already longer than when he'd arrived in Erebor, and he inhaled deeply, taking in the smell of Bilbo's homemade soap and cookies and child. Then he got to his feet with regret and left Frodo snuggled into the depths of his coat.

All too soon he'd be spending his evening with surly Dwarf lords and their doubts, Bilbo's strength at his side. But for now, his thoughts were on eager blue eyes and the story he meant to tell the child. If not tonight then tomorrow, tales would be woven and he would watch his stories come alive in those eyes. 

-fin


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea that Thorin is a chronic insomniac is partially based on my own experiences with it and partially about that one scene in AUJ where Thorin startles instantly awake at the mere whisper of the word Orc. I imagine that his days of sleeping in ignorant bliss ended the same day the dragon came and Erebor burned. 
> 
> So yeah, that happened and it's in my brain, and I end up writing a dozen little snippets about it. Sorry about that. *G*

* * *

It couldn't have been the evening chill that woke him. To begin with, Bilbo wasn't at all chilled. Dwarves were terribly clever at times and the heating of the King's bedroom reflected it. One small fire on the single hearth was enough to warm the room to coziness and if that weren't enough, the blankets and furs piled atop the bed would have been enough to draw the cold from Orc's heart. 

Not a chill, and not a fraction of discomfort, either. Every bed in Bag End had a feather ticking from the moment the furniture had been moved in and that was one luxury that Bilbo had refused to do without. Beneath his cheek was nothing but the softness of down, not a thing to pinch and poke him into wakefulness. 

Indeed, the only problem Bilbo could find with his bedroom or his bed was that he was the only one in it. 

Bilbo squinted sleepily into the room lit only by the glowing coals of the hearth. The bed beside him held only a rumpled pillow, the blankets cast back. Not a single chair held an occupant, not reading in the dimness or scowling blackly at the dying fire as though the embers themselves had betrayed him. Not a soul was breathing in this room other than Bilbo himself and he sat up with a grumbling yawn, knuckling at his weary eyes. 

"Where would we be tonight?" Bilbo mumbled to himself as he struggled into his robe. Knotting it seemed past the ability of his fumbling hands and he left it hanging open, his nightshirt peeking out as he scuffled off towards the door. Where indeed? 

The kitchen was always a possibility. Dwarves had an appetite that rivaled any Hobbits, and more than once, Bilbo had found Thorin in the kitchen, proving that Kings were indeed skilled at all things. Twice now Bilbo had discovered Frodo with him, the two of them thick as thieves as they gobbled down treats, wiping their hands on their shirts like unmannerly heathens instead of a King and a growing gentlehobbit. Bilbo had bitten his tongue mercilessly and left the two of them to their antics, for there was some misbehavior that was needed from time to time. 

On other occasions, Bilbo had joined Thorin, perhaps timidly at first, unwilling to intrude. It had been quickly made clear to him that he was never intruding, never, and depending on the night and Thorin's mood, they'd share a snack. They had eaten sandwiches together, with proper napkins, and cakes as well. On other nights it might be fruit, drizzled with the cloying sweetness of honey or savory sausages, brown to perfection under a Hobbit's watchful eye. 

Just the memory of those nights, of shamelessly licking his fingers before wiping them properly on a napkin, made Bilbo quicken his pace. Yet the kitchen was still and silent, no telling aroma of toasted bread or sweet apples in the air. 

Bilbo lingered in the doorway, his stomach reporting its unhappiness that a snack was not forthcoming. The rumbling in his belly was easily ignored and Bilbo chewed on his thumb, considering. The cellars were a possibility. There was nary a Dwarf alive that didn't appreciate a mug of ale, Bilbo had found, even the children drank small beer with their evening meal. And while Thorin was not one to indulge more than any other Dwarf, there had been the occasional night when Bilbo had found him sitting beside the barrels, a mug in hand and no more than that, for Thorin would not drown in ale, only paddle lightly at the surface. 

Not this night, it would seem. Bilbo opened the door and his candle had flickered wildly but the light it cast did not reveal a soul, tormented or otherwise. 

Bilbo closed the door sharply, nearly putting out his candle in the process, and huffed impatiently. "Oh, for heaven's sake, where has he got off to?" Bilbo muttered, his sleep-addled mind sifting through ideas. He stopped sharply as a thought came to him, biting his lip. 

It was…possible that Thorin might be in the treasure halls. Not that Bilbo had ever found him there, not once, not since his return to Erebor. No, not since then, but not never, for there had been the time when the halls had still reeked with the stink of dragon and the gold had risen in shimmering mountains. Bilbo had watched, hidden behind the rubble of a nearly collapsed wall, watched as Thorin cupped gold coins in his hands and let them fall through his fingers in a gleaming stream, over and over again. Watched as the light in his eyes slid into madness. 

Bilbo shook himself firmly. Ridiculous thoughts, he scolded himself silently, nothing more than silly doubts. Since his return he had never, not even once, found Thorin lingering alone in the treasure rooms, day or night, and he wasn't about to start mistrusting him now. 

"So where is he?" Bilbo muttered to himself. "Where indeed?"

Perhaps if he'd been less sleepy, Bilbo might have thought of one last place to begin with. In retrospect it was painfully obvious and when Bilbo made his way up the spiraling staircase, he was not at all surprised to see a faint light coming from beneath the door. Carefully, Bilbo pulled the latch and the door opened on silent hinges, swinging wide. 

The King's library was modest, hardly what Bilbo would have expected and yet, something about it appealed. The shelves were set on clever pivots, shifting at a single touch to reveal another row of hidden books and each set of shelves ended high above Bilbo's head, requiring the services of a handy ladder whenever a novel on the top rack caught his eye. More books were piled in neat stacks, scattered about in a sort of literary maze, for Thorin refused to allow any of his servants to tidy them, claiming he'd never find them again. 

Privately, Bilbo thought a bit of brisk alphabetizing wouldn't be amiss but that was a battle not worth drawing a sword. 

In this room, there was a chair, a squashed, cushiony thing that would never find its way to the public eye. Brought all the way from Hobbiton, it was a chair that invited sprawling with a thick blanket and a cup of sweet tea. Bilbo had often found his way into this room, into that chair, whether he had a book or not, curled up in front of the warmth of the hearth. Thorin had occasionally joined him, sitting in his own stiff-backed chair with a book in hand and the two of them had read together in comfortable silence, and if occasionally Thorin had taken Bilbo's hand in his, stroked a broad thumb gently over his knuckles, well, Bilbo would take any soppy affection from Thorin when he could get it. 

On this particular night, Bilbo crept through the stacks of books to his chair to find it occupied. He stood with his candle in hand, that feeble light casting a warm glow over the Dwarf curled up in his chair, his head resting on the padded arm as he slept. The hearth was cold and so was the room, Bilbo shivering in his bare feet. He set his candle next to the one burning low on the side table, untangling his blanket from its untidy pile on the floor. He settled it over Thorin with all the tender care he could manage, tucking a strand of silken hair behind a large ear. 

Before he could slip away, a hand caught his, large fingers curling around his own. "Oh, I didn't mean to wake you," Bilbo fussed, sighing as Thorin shifted, sleepy blue eyes blinking in the dim light. 

"Don't leave," Thorin murmured, tugging at Bilbo's hand until he could press a kiss to the inside of his wrist, his beard prickly soft. 

A thousand excuses rose to Bilbo's lips. It was terribly late, they both needed their sleep, the room was chilly and his chair was entirely too small for the both of them. Petty concerns and Bilbo pushed them easily aside, squirming beneath Thorin's arm, the both of them pressed tightly as they curled together. Squashed together more like, Bilbo thought ruefully, in a barely comfortable tangle of limbs and when Thorin sighed deeply, shifting to rest his head against Bilbo's heart, he did not care a whit. 

"Go to sleep," Bilbo whispered, running his fingers through the soft tangle of Thorin's hair. His answering murmur was less words than a contended sound and Bilbo only stroked his hair, his ears, coaxing Thorin to obey. 

-fin


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

Dís's memories of living in the King's quarter of Erebor were as distant as a dream, fogged over by time and the ravages of a left-behind childhood. When she had come from the Blue Mountains, weary from travel and numb with mourning, it had not so much as occurred to her to consider where she would be sleeping. 

At the front gates it had been far more important to see her brother, to clutch him to her breast, share their tears and grief. It was only when they had both been, if not soothed, then ready to set their pain aside for a time, that either of them thought to where they would be putting her wardrobe.

Perhaps there were those who would be horrified to learn that when the King and his sister went to her childhood room, their first reaction was near-hysterical laughter. But it could not be helped for all Dís could think of was trying to sleep in her narrow childhood bed, surrounded by silly playthings, paper flowers and dolls. She had taken one look at the bed and at its freshly laundered bed linens decked with lace, looked at Thorin and in hardly a moment the both of them were leaning on each other, near to falling to the floor in their laughter. If a tear or two were shed in that room, none would have thought worse of them for that. 

There was a time Dís had thought if all the tears that had fallen for what her people had lost were gathered as one, then all of Middle-earth would be left drowning in the ocean of their sorrow. Instead, Dís wore her tears like jewels; Kings had their crowns and bore their burdens and those who stood beside them did the same.

She'd slept that night in a guest room and the next day, she'd chosen a room of her own. And while the room was as spacious and comfortable as was to be expected of Erebor, the evenings often found her in the main sitting room of the King's quarter, settled in front of the fireplace with some craft to busy her hands. Her own rooms seemed too quiet, the silence of the night swallowing her, but seeking out others merely to hear them bustling and breathing seemed too pathetic by far to be allowed.

Here she could sit by the crackling fire and company often found her. Balin might sit for a spell, perhaps bringing a cup of tea along and they could chat about the council meeting that morning or what caravans were expected to be passing through in the next weeks. Dwalin was a frequent visitor and while the contents of the flask he offered might make Dís sputter and choke, never did she wave away a swallow, nor did she fail to giggle at whatever joke he deemed worthy of sharing, not even the ones that would have Thorin making good on his promise to behead Dwalin for spilling such filth into his sister's ear. 

Even Thorin often took the time to sit with her for a spell, though visits had been fewer and further between of late. One of the very reasons for that was currently peering out at her from the doorway that led from Thorin's suite of rooms. 

The expected shout admonishing Frodo to come back in at once did not come; whoever was tasked with keeping an eye on the boy was failing at their task, she mused, recalling failing at a similar task herself often enough. Instead, he crept closer, his eyes alive with curiosity as he took in Dís's work. 

"What are you making?" Frodo's little brow creased as he looked at the pile of metal rings, his eyes marking the clever movement of Dís's fingers as she wove the rings.

"This is chainmail," Dís told him. Long practice had made her quick and skilled at the linking of rings, but she slowed long enough to show him what she was doing. Hooking the rings and closing the ends was tedious, mind-numbing work and on these late evening, she often found herself indulging in the blankness of busywork. Never before had she had a little Hobbit to bear witness to her efforts and she took the time to show him the pattern of the weave and how to close the ends with her tool before linking another ring. 

Frodo watched with great interest and in no little time he was sat with a pile of his own rings, carefully hooking them and using Dís's spare crimping tool. His efforts were clumsy and uneven, but Dís nodded approvingly when he held up a small row. 

"Make sure you close the ends properly, else it will not hold," was her only admonishment and Frodo nodded absently, his attention back on his work. 

For a time, there was nothing but the crackle of the fire and the sound of their work; the chime of the metal rings, their fingers moving upon them, and the tiny grunt Frodo made when he crimped a ring that spoke of the effort it cost him. Dís had lulled into the monotony of it all, the novelty of a child Hobbit working alongside her dimming and when the boy spoke again, she nearly pinched her own finger. 

"Uncle Bilbo said he didn't know you from before," Frodo said matter-of-factly. His fingers moved with a nimbleness that a Dwarf child his age would not yet possess, Dís noted distantly. "He said he didn't meet you on his last adventure."

"Did he," Dís said neutrally. She kept her opinion on the word adventure to herself. "He spoke truly. I had not met him ere the pair of you came to Erebor. He met my sons, though, Kíli and Fíli." 

To her surprise, the child went very still, wide blue eyes rising to hers almost fearfully. "Uncle Bilbo told me I mustn't ask about them," Frodo near whispered, blinking too fast. "He said they…that they were gone, like my momma and da, and it would make you sad."

Frodo is a child, Dís reminded herself and took a slow, patient breath, flattening her hands on her lap table. Only a child and one who was rather charmingly obedient to his elders, doing as they asked with nary a quarrel or a groan. Still, she could not keep a touch of coolness from her voice as she said, "He is correct, they are gone. But the choice of whether to speak of them is mine, despite what your uncle thinks. They are my sons and I will talk about them as I will."

Frodo, it seemed, was not easily dissuaded, and he frowned, chewing his lower lip as he considered that. "Won't it make you sad?"

"Does talking about your parents sadden you?" she countered and took up her work again. Frodo blinked, perhaps harder than he had before and took up his own line of rings. 

"Yes," Frodo finally said, roughly, and perhaps if he was with another, he would have wept. Whether it was her strangeness or his stubbornness that kept tears from falling, Dís did not know. Instead, he took out his temper on his tiny weaving, hooking and crimping the rings with a certain ferocity that Dís recognized. And she found she approved.

"Yes, it does," Frodo went on. "I loved them so much and sometimes…sometimes I don't remember them very well. I think…sometimes I don't remember how…how they looked or how my momma smelled." The tears he refused to allow fall were thick in his voice. "Sometimes it hurts so much and I just…I want to talk about them, even when it makes me sad."

"And do you?" Dís asked, softly. Her own fingers flew, beginning another row. If she kept working at this, she'd have a fair piece of armor in a week, perhaps less.

"Sometimes," Frodo said, subdued. "But it makes Uncle Bilbo sadder, too. I think."

"I see," Dís pursed her lips and reminded herself, again, that Frodo was a child who thought the very world of his Uncle. "Then may I suggest a trade? When you are with me, if you like, you may talk of your parents as much as you like. If," and she raised a finger, marking her condition, "If I am allowed to speak of my sons."

"Will you tell me stories about them?" Frodo asked, with the bright eagerness of a child and Dís could not help a smile, small as it was.

"I shall," she agreed. Stories, yes, she had stories and now, it seemed, she had an audience. She was considering where to begin, perhaps at Fíli's birth, which had been an adventure of its own, or perhaps Frodo would be delighted to hear tales of the mischief her little ones had gotten into at his age. She would admit to only a small, selfish bit of hope that it encouraged this child to find a touch of his own. 

Before she could choose, Frodo had another question for her, "If you are Uncle Thorin's sister, are you Your Highness, too?"

"I am, yes, child," Dís crimped a last ring and set her tool aside, giving the boy her full attention, "But if I am Uncle Thorin's sister, should I not be Aunt Dís to you?"

"Can I?" Frodo asked, eyes wide and his smile as bright as the sun. Dís was helpless against smiling back and wondered with wry humor if the ice the gossips swore surrounded her heart might thaw, just a touch, for a smile as warm as that. 

" _Akhûnith_ , I am afraid I must insist."

With that, she took up her tool again and began another weaving, this one a tale of two troublesome, winsome boys. Her boys, whose smiles had been so very much like the lad before her and with each tale she told, his sweet laughter filled the room, chasing away the loneliness of the night. 

-fin


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

Dreams were tricky things, Thorin knew. 

Dreams could speak truths as often as lies, even if one were wont to remember them; as often as his night's slumber was disturbed by some dream or another, Thorin rarely remembered what had stirred him. He only knew the thunder of his heartbeat, the clotted tightness in his throat, and the urge to rise, to be anywhere else but in a bed where that dream might return.

Tonight was no exception to that rule and it was with no little care that Thorin slipped from beneath the blankets. Not that Bilbo was one easily awoken but he would prefer at least one of them enjoyed a proper rest. 

In silence, Thorin drew on a heavy robe, idly considering the idea of reading a book by the fire. If he was to sleep again this night, then he would make a good start of it by entertaining his thoughts in another fashion. The fire in the sitting room was burned down to glowing coals and he took a moment to stoke it, settling a heavy log into the licking flames. When he turned, for a moment his heart stilled, his eyes suggesting he might still be dreaming for a small figure stood before him, pale eyes looking at him from beneath the hood of a blanket. Begging him for help, for him to save them, his people-- 

Almost he could taste the smell of burning flesh, thick in the back of his throat, the reek of dragon in his nostrils. With a dry swallow and a hard blink, it vanished and there was nothing but Frodo standing there, a Hobbit child and no Dwarf at all. 

"Frodo, what are you doing up?" A touch too sharply in his shaken relief and he stood quickly, moving towards him only to hesitate when Frodo flinched away, his eyes wide and wild.

"Easy, you aren't in trouble," Thorin soothed. He crouched low, the better not to tower over the boy. Thorin carefully held up his hands, offering and Frodo trembled like a wild thing, blinking too rapidly in the dim light. He wavered, undecided, and just when Thorin thought he'd dart off into the darkened corridor, instead he flung himself past Thorin's hands, flinging his arms around his neck.

"I'm sorry!" Frodo whimpered, "I couldn't sleep, my bed is scary! I didn't mean to wander away." He was weeping, his little body shaking with the force of his tears. "I'm sorry, don't tell Uncle Bilbo!"

"Hush, hush," Thorin murmured, rubbing his back gently. "Hush, now. Didn't I say you weren't in trouble? I won't tell your uncle, child, but I promise you, he would not be cross with you. Hush."

Slowly, weeping eased into hiccoughs and sniffles and Thorin risked lifting Frodo into his arms, holding the child close. Watery blue eyes lifted to Thorin's, blinking even as large tears slid down his cheeks. 

Gently, Thorin wiped them away with a thumb, hushing Frodo again gently. "Do you know what we need?" Thorin asked softly.

Silently, Frodo shook his head.

"A snack," Thorin said decisively. "Little tummies are often hungry, I believe." He gave Frodo's belly a poke and got a watery giggle in return. "Come along, my boy, shall we see what we can find in the kitchen?"

"Yes!" Frodo agreed happily, scuffing away the last of his tears on the sleeve of his nightshirt. He seemed content to make the trip in Thorin's arms, a fair choice as Thorin was reluctant to let him go.

If the guards at the door had an opinion at seeing their King, barefoot and in his dressing gown, carrying a small Hobbit child out chamber door in the middle of the night, they kept it to themselves. Thorin offered a silent nod to Jari, his head of the night guardsman. He heard the quiet footsteps that told him Jari had chosen to follow him, but he did it discreetly enough that Thorin doubted Frodo noticed. 

As a child, Thorin had not known to resent the presence of the guardsmen, excepting the times they'd spoiled various grand schemes that he and Frerin had concocted. Having a guard at your heels often put an end to any mischief before it was begun. After the fall of Erebor and the collapse of his grandfather's house, change had happened quickly. Thorin had grown accustomed to traveling on his own, days of nothing but his own breath and footsteps. Returning to Erebor was like a return to childhood in many ways and he did not resent the guards that shadowed his every move. Not quite. 

Frodo's sudden tug on his braid distracted him from his prickly musings and, wincing, Thorin reached up to loosen his grip. Something about his braids seemed to attract Hobbit fingers for Bilbo was wont to toy with the ropes of hair as well, fingers lingering over the aglets, tracing the runes as if committing them to memory. Another Dwarf would never be so free with such a thing, Thorin mused wryly, would never consider using a symbol of the line of Durin as a leash for a recalcitrant pet.

Unbidden, a memory came to him; another flash of childhood, for there was one who had no qualms about tugging his braids, not when she was the one to weave them every morning. His mother had been known to give them a playful tug now and then…

Thorin shifted Frodo on his hip and left that memory alone. Tonight was one made for wisps and tatters of thoughts, it seemed. Small wonder Frodo had not been able to sleep if such wandering memories whispered across his thoughts this night. 

In the kitchens, the cooking fires were banked, and the counters were lined with pans of rising bread dough laid out beneath damp cloths, waiting for the morning's baking. Luck was on their side, there was no sign of any of the kitchen workers. Had any of them caught a glimpse of Thorin, he would have quickly found himself seated at an ornate table and trays of food would be prepared for him in a trice, even if the cooks had to be shaken awake to serve only him. 

Instead of an unwanted midnight feast, Thorin instead managed to find a leftover loaf of yesterday's bread. In the pantry, he and Frodo deliberated over the proper cheese and stealthy carried their prizes to the cook fire. In no short order, slightly stale bread and cheese were toasting over the fire. Thorin sat on the floor, his feet warmed by the fire, and Frodo was next to him on a low stool, watching with wide-eyed interest. 

"I didn't know you could cook, Uncle Thorin," Frodo mumbled around a stolen tidbit of cheese. Doubtless, it would not ruin his appetite. 

"Of course I can cook," Thorin said mildly. "I spent a great deal of time traveling on my own. I could either cook my food or eat it raw. Not my preference."

"Dwalin wasn't very good at it," Frodo offered doubtfully.

"I suspect Dwalin simply cooked his food until it stopped moving," Thorin told him dryly. "If a bite squirmed too vigorously, back to the fire it went."

"Ewwwww!" Frodo wrinkled his nose and Thorin laughed, flipping the sandwich over neatly and tapping the golden crust. It was satisfyingly crispy.

"That is why we are having cheese sandwiches, my child," Thorin chuckled. "They aren't known for putting up a struggle."

The expected giggle did not follow and Thorin frowned, finding Frodo with his chin on his knees, his little brow creased. "Frodo?"

"My da used to call me that," Frodo told him, low.

"I'm sorry," Thorin said, instantly. He set the pan off the fire, resting a hand on Frodo's back. "If it troubles you, I won't--"

"I don't mind," Frodo leaned into his touch, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. "You can call me that. But I miss him, sometimes."

"I know," Thorin stroked a hand over Frodo's soft curls. "I miss my father sometimes as well."

"Your da died too?" Frodo frowned up at him earnestly. "So did Uncle Bilbo's. Fathers die a lot."

Hardly a line of thought he wanted to encourage. Thorin hesitated, searching for words, only to grunt in surprise when Frodo flung himself into Thorin's arms, clutching him tightly. "Uncles don't die, do they?"

"Frodo...." Thorin sighed and pressed a kiss against unruly curls. "I can promise you this. I will try my very best to not die and I will make sure your Uncle Bilbo does as well. All right?"

"Okay," Frodo sniffled, rubbing his nose wetly against Thorin's shirtfront. "Are the sandwiches done?"

"Do you know, I do believe they are," Thorin chuckled. Perhaps a touch overdone on the other side, the better to prohibit any struggles.

The sandwiches were hot, eaten in in whispery hisses between bites of melted cheese and bread. No plates and the both of them wiped their fingers on the front of their nightshirts. "Don't tell your uncle," Thorin whispered and Frodo nodded solemnly.

"Are you ready to go back to bed?" Thorin offered and Frodo shook his head vigorously, his eyes wide and anxious.

"All right, then," Thorin scooped him back up, settling Frodo into the crook of his arm. "Shall we sit by the fire, then? I could tell you a story."

"Yes!" Frodo beamed and the two of them crept back into the echoing hallways, past guards that only watched and did not speak aloud the curious questions that surely rose in their throats. By the time they returned to the King's chambers, Frodo's small head was nodding, his eyelids drooping heavily though they remained stubbornly open. Thorin did not suggest a return to bed and settled as promised by the fire, drawing the soft blanket that lay over the arm of the chair over the boy. Hobbit or not, the mountain had a chill and seeing those little bare feet made Thorin itch to wrap them in warm covers against the cool air. 

Frodo settled readily into his lap, his head resting against Thorin's chest. Again, his braid had found its way into a small fist and this time Thorin did not draw it free, holding Frodo closely as he drowsed. Another memory rose, unbidden, of another small head of dark hair and an equally sweet smile. Kíli had been a restless sleeper as well and more than once Thorin had held him just this way, sung soft lullabies into his tiny ear, cradlesongs of Erebor and dragon's fire. 

What came to his lips this time was a soft, wordless tune, one he'd heard hummed time and again by Bilbo. At bedtimes, to Frodo, or absently, as he cooked or sorted through the pages of his book. A gentle melody that brought thoughts of Bilbo to mind, of the Shire and those that lived there, garden and sunshine, the smell of ink and the scratch of a pen on paper. To Thorin's ear, his deep, Dwarven voice brought a solemnness to a song that should be sweet, sobering what should be bright. Frodo did not seem to mind, only sighed softly and snuggled into the blanket's folds. 

He let the song die away and left them with nothing but the crackle of the fire. Frodo's slight weight was warm in his arms, his lashes dark against his downy cheek. Hesitantly, Thorin raised a hand and drew a finger down his bare cheek, the smooth, bare skin that always struck him as odd in the other peoples of Middle-earth. When had he become accustomed to such a sight? Perhaps the moment he'd crossed the threshold of a green door, some years ago. 

"Thorin?" A hushed whisper from the doorway startled him. Bilbo stood in the shadows, blinking sleepily, his dressing gown hanging open over his nightshirt.

"I have him, you can go back to bed," Thorin said, softly. Instead, Bilbo trudged into room, stifling a jaw-splitting yawn behind his hand. He sat on the low footstool by Thorin's feet, scrubbing at his eyes. 

"How lucky for you both, to find a kindred spirit in insomnia," Bilbo said sleepily. With a light touch, he tucked one of Frodo's curls behind his ear, drawing a smile from Thorin. Which turned to a blink of surprise when he mirrored the gesture on a long strand of Thorin's hair, tweaking his earlobe lightly in passing. 

"He slept well enough on the road," Thorin said, brow creasing, a well of worries rising, were his rooms not warm enough? Too warm? Did the child not feel safe, did the darkness bother him-- Bilbo's hand followed the line of his frown and smoothed it away.

"He had plenty to keep his mind occupied while we were traveling. Frodo slept poorly enough at Bag End, as well," Bilbo said, his fingertips gentle at Thorin's temple, urging him to lean into the cradle of his palm. "He often crept into bed with me at night. Dreams, you see. I think you understand."

Thorin lowered his eyes to Frodo's sleeping face and did not reply. Dreams, yes. That he could understand.

A long moment passed before the silence was broken by Bilbo humming softly, that same sweet tune and after a moment, Thorin joined him, his lower voice mingling in counterpoint with Bilbo's, a blending harmony of Hobbit and Dwarf. He followed Bilbo's lead, singing wordlessly to the end of the gentle tune and when Bilbo smiled at him, he was helpless not to meet that as well. 

"There are words to that song," Bilbo said. He rested a hand on Thorin's knee, squeezing gently. "I could teach them to you sometime."

Thorin dropped his eyes back to Frodo, unable to meet the warmth in Bilbo's eyes for too long a time, "I would like that," he murmured around the rising thickness in his throat. Wordlessly, he took up the tune again and this time it was Bilbo who followed where he lead, their combined voices little more than a melodious hum in the darkened room.

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

Deep within Erebor, far enough from the main gates keep them away from prying eyes, were three throne rooms. Elves would think it pretentious, of course, and never mind that they considered themselves too lofty to scramble down from the trees. It was hardly pretension, it was necessity, and Thorin had learned of their purposes at his Grandfather's knee when he was hardly older than Frodo. 

The main Throne room was of course for visiting dignitaries, an enormous, echoing cavern that spoke silent volumes of the authority and wealth of the Dwarves of Erebor. The second, deeper in the mountain, smaller and yet no less opulent, was for those with a petition to see the King, to address concerns of the Guild leaders and for the King to settle quarrels or disputes that had been unable to be resolved in the lower courts. 

Bilbo was not fond of either room, finding them cold and unwelcoming. If Hobbits ever took it upon themselves to have a throne room, Thorin suspected it would be set within a large, comfortable kitchen with a cook fire blazing and great platters of food set out for all and sundry to demolish throughout the conversation. If ever Thorin chose to add a fourth throne room, he wouldn't mind taking a page from the Hobbit's book of ideals. 

For the time being, however, there were but the three, and the third, seldom used, was darker, colder, the throne set upon a high dais, and it was here that the King gave judgment, set punishments for those who would commit terrible crimes or treason against the people of Erebor. 

It was here that Thorin sat this day, tapping a finger on his knee as he took in the sight before him. Two flour-coated figures stood at the base of the dais, smeared with jam and streaked with chocolate. The only clean spot on either of them were their eyes, Frodo's fearful and Dwalin's sourly defiant as he met his King's glare.

He let them stew a moment longer, the only sound the persistent dripping from Dwalin's hair and beard. Until Frodo was squirming, kept to silence only from the teachings of his mentor; one did not cave to any form of questioning.

Finally, Thorin asked them, his voice mild and curious, echoing softly through the room. "I wonder if either of you could explain to me just what has brought you before me this day?"

Stoic silence from the both of them, and then Frodo ventured, slowly, "I...it was an accident. Sir."

Dwalin's glare left Thorin and focused precisely on Frodo, who cringed beneath its heat.

"An accident," Thorin repeated. "I see."

He stood and made his way down the stairs to their level, hands clasped behind him as he paced, circling his recalcitrant son and friend, repeating, softly, "An accident."

The sound of Frodo swallowing was a mere dry click, "Yes, sir."

"An accident that has left the kitchens in a shamble?" Thorin asked, icily, "An accident that has the head chef petitioning me to ban the two of you from them for the foreseeable future? You stand before me like that," he gestured furiously to them both and wiped a streak of jam from Frodo's cheek with a distasteful finger. "An accident caused this; that is what you are telling me?"

Another dry swallow, "Yes, sir."

"Dwalin?" Thorin asked sharply, the weight of his command in his voice, "You have nothing to add to this, I take it?"

"No, your Highness," Dwalin said stiffly.

Thorin nodded slowly. "I see." He walked back to his throne and sat, forefingers pressed to his lips in consideration. "And it would be a cruelty to punish either of you for an accident, would it not?"

The rising hope in Frodo's eyes was tempered by the growing doom in Dwalin's, the large Dwarf's throat working as he swallowed, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he ground his teeth on whatever words threatened to escape.

"And I am not a King who is known for my cruelty," Thorin said, calmly, "Particularly with one of my best and loyalist subjects. Dwalin, you know I trust you in all things, do you not?"

"Yes, your Highness," Dwalin gritted out.

"Which is why I have been considering a new role for you," Thorin said smoothly, "An Ambassador of sorts, I think. To the Elves of Mirkwood. I know your brother has served up until now, but I think a new task would be fitting for you, loyal as you are."

"The elves," Frodo whispered, eyes widening, "But...but he would be gone for weeks!"

"A sacrifice that must be made by loyal servants," Thorin said dismissively.

"But..." Frodo whined, eyes taking on a shine even as Dwalin gestured to him frantically. Do not, do not...

"You should pack your things, Dwalin, the company leaves tomorrow."

"Of course, your..." Dwalin began only to be interrupted as Frodo burst out.

"It was my fault!" he wailed, "I only wanted to try the recipe I found in Uncle Bilbo's book, I didn't know it would explode like that! Dwalin was trying to help me, Uncle Thorin, please, don't send him away! Please!"

Dwalin sighed aloud, head hanging as Frodo blubbered out the entire story, tears streaking through the powdery coating of flour on his cheeks.

Thorin listened in silence, until Frodo's tears dwindled into hiccoughs, "So you were in the kitchens, then, as you were expressly forbidden."

"Yes, sir," Frodo said miserably.

"And why were you banned from the kitchens previously?"

Frodo squirmed and muttered, "We caught the head chef's beard afire."

"And the time before that?"

"That one was not the lad's fault," Dwalin broke in.

"I'll thank YOU to keep your silence," Thorin snapped, "As I see your loyalty to me is compromised."

Dwalin fell silent, a large, glowering, wounded presence.

Thorin sighed aloud and shook his head. Slipped a finger beneath the edge of his crown to rub at his forehead where a headache was beginning to loom. "Frodo, my child, I adore you, but I cannot allow you to continue destroying the kitchens."

"Yes, sir," Frodo whispered.

"I'd assign you to assist in the cleanup, but my head chef has threatened to resign if he sees you near the kitchens again," Thorin said dryly. "His beard still has not grown completely back in. Therefore, I am grounding you to your quarters. You shall take your meals there, your tutors, and only your tutors, shall visit you there, until I judge your punishment complete. You are not to leave them under any circumstance, is that understood? I assure you, I will not be pleased if I discover otherwise."

"Yes, sir," Frodo agreed, blinking hard. He turned to leave, hesitating at the sound of a cleared throat. Hastily, he darted up to the throne and flung his arms around Thorin, "I'm sorry," he blurted.

"I'm sure you are," Thorin hugged him back. "Now, do as I say."

"Yes, sir," Frodo hopped back down, his feet quiet on the floor as he marched off to his quarters.

Dwalin and Thorin watched him go in silence until Frodo was out of earshot. "You think I was too harsh."

"I would never question your judgment."

"You do," Thorin said dryly, "Only you keep your words beneath your tongue, as a wise fellow should."

"A lesson I have yet to properly teach," Dwalin grumbled, "You'd not have sent me to the Elves."

"You think not?" Thorin asked silkily.

"Aye. We'd be at war again before the week was out," Dwalin snorted, "You'd send me to the dungeons first and that would have helped you not at all. We both know the lad can slip down there with ease."

"Do not remind me," Thorin groaned. He rubbed his temples wearily. "I suppose I should thank you for saving him from himself yet again."

Dwalin smirked, "You'll forgive me for saying it, but I did not do it for you."

"Aye," Thorin nodded, "I know." His fond gaze hardened, "And we have yet to discuss your punishment."

Dwalin squared his shoulders grimly. "Aye, as you command, your Highness. Shall I travel to the Elves after all? Will you have me scrubbing the privies?"

"You will stay away from Frodo until I deem his punishment to be finished."

Dwalin stiffened. "Sire, my duties include protecting the boy."

"They do," Thorin agreed idly, "Something I doubt he will need in his own quarters. However, I'm sure I can assign another trustworthy guard for the time being."

"Thorin," Dwalin protested, urgently. "It is not just his own tendency towards mischief, there is always a chance, however slim, that someone would attempt to hurt you through him. You must allow me to--"

"--to go to your quarters and let the boy alone until I say otherwise," Thorin said, unrelenting. "Your own brother has already agreed to stay with him. Do you suspect him of treason?"

"No, of course not," Dwalin said glumly, his fiery glower dissolving.

"Very well, then. You are dismissed."

"Am I to hug you as well?" Dwalin shot back over one shoulder before stomping away as though he could make the very mountain tremble beneath his silent rage.

It was only after the echo of his footsteps had faded that Thorin allowed the quiver within him to break free in a slow, rolling wave, his laughter echoing through the throne room as he recalled his child and his closest friend head to foot in flour and sweet jam, like cookies ready for baking, the head chef coated in his own layer shouting indignantly, nearly incoherent in his rage as he described the state of both his ovens and his assistants.

It was Bilbo who found him soon after, still chuckling, and the Hobbit's brow creased in curiosity and worry as he sighed out, "What did they do now?"

"You'd prefer not to know," Thorin told him, pressing a warm kiss to his brow, "But I'll ask you to lock away all your recipe books from now on."

"Not the kitchens, again!" Bilbo groaned. "We had cold sandwiches just two days ago."

"Aye, and you'll have to take some to your nephew tonight." Thorin ignored Bilbo's squawk of protest as he tugged the Hobbit into his lap. He squirmed delightfully in his indignation. 

"We are in your throne room," Bilbo hissed, scandalized.

"You brought yourself here," Thorin said, unrepentant as he kissed a gentle path up to Bilbo's ear, teeth teasing the delicate edge.

"But..." Bilbo said, weakly. 

"The guards saw you enter," Thorin murmured, let his breath gust hotly against damp skin. "They will not come in unless I shout for them."

"You think....you think they expect us to be doing this?" Bilbo choked out, shivering as Thorin sucked gently at the point of his ear.

"I think that they will not come in unless I call them. I refuse to speculate on their reasons why."

The third throne room, smaller and colder and far away from the others, was Bilbo's favorite, Thorin knew, and if no one else knew the reason, well, it was certainly for the best. 

-fin


End file.
